In the middle of the night, the light
is at its lowest and sometimes
so am I. The sky seems
lit up from the inside
but only darkness shows,
melancholic growth slows
my thinking
and
accelerates
the
sinking
into ancient relics, a mix of
old thoughts and superfluous hysterics
the barracks in my head,
filled with dead soldiers
oblivious to orders.
I am a ward of
my deepest pain until I fold it all away.
Letting it all fade. The
Uttering excuses, cluttering my choosing.
Stuttering and losing. The dark thoughts
that feel like reality,
seeping sanity.
The night is still my love, despite
its cruelties and duality. It grows me,
the moon. Raising me
in its light. Raising me to fight.
And I say to myself, “I am fire.”
That’s when forgiveness becomes a start,
one of many healings that
will regenerate the damaged parts.
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